


Underneath Your Clothes

by demonlifehealer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Body Image, Child Abuse, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dealing with the Aftermath of Abuse, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear of Rejection, Hiding His Body, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Napping, POV Second Person, Parental Abuse, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Violence, Protective Grif, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex, Understanding Grif
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-22 13:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6081294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonlifehealer/pseuds/demonlifehealer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grif always thought that Simmon's clothing kink was odd. </p><p>That is until he finds out the real reason why Simmons never takes off his shirt.</p><p>This is one of my first attempts at 2nd person POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keep the Shirt On.

When you first start fumbling around you find it a bit odd that Simmons insists that the shirt stays on. 

“Oh, is this a clothing kink?” You ask with a self satisfied smirk. He’s hard in your hand with his hips slightly pushing upward. His pale face is nearly as red as his hair. He looks like he's struggling with a reason. His eyes widen and he nods furiously. 

“Yes, it’s a kink. I completely get off on having my shirt on, now for fucks sake Grif. _Move!_ ” 

You comply with his request and for awhile you forget about the issue.

It’s a few love making sessions later that you realize that he doesn’t like your hands caressing under his shirt. It’s beginning to make you curious. He shivers when you touch him there. He looks like he is doing everything in the world to tolerate your touch. You are used to body issues with his robotic arm or how he stares a little too long at your mismatched skin. 

You are lazy, not oblivious. You challenge the issue. “Do my hands not feel good?” You ask him one day. He gives you a wide eyed look like he has been caught stealing a cookie out of the jar. _Busted_. “I just don’t like being touched there. It may be a due to the surgery. It’s not sensitive at all.”

You find his explanation reasonable. Sarge’s surgeries have affected you both in unexpected and creepy ways. You decide to focus on touching places where you know he is sensitive. He sighs and instantly relaxes.

It’s a few months later and you realize that Simmons may have a kink but it’s a kink that he won’t let up on. You are still figuring each other out. You have learned so much about him. You have learned that he can give as well as receive. You learn that he is as much a perfectionist in the bedroom as he is in every other part of his life. You learn that all you have to do is whisper that he did something good and he is ready and eager. What you haven’t learned is what is under that damn shirt. You are beginning to resent shirts.

Kink or no, you make a plan.

You are fucking him doggy style. You are behind him and he is moaning in pleasure below you. This is your chance. You move your hands from gripping his hips to lifting up the shirt on his back. All you see are scars which make you go white hot with anger. They litter his back. They are old, pale and long. Simmons yelps and he reaches back to pull down his shirt. 

You react on instinct and flip him over on his back. His pupils dilate. You reach for the front of his shirt. “No! Don’t!” He yelled out with the high pitched voice that he uses when he is truly upset. You don’t listen. Your eyes zoom in on his stomach. You want to wretch. His stomach is possibly worse than his back. Simmons stills. His whole body starts shaking. You hate the look he’s giving you. It’s pure fear. He looks like he is about to cry. He’s looking at you but he isn’t really looking at you. His breathing is increasing. You have dealt with his panic attacks before. They are never pretty.

You move slowly, disengaging from him. You open your mouth to say something. 

“I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to see.” Simmons fearfully stutters out. He is looking at you like you are going to kill him. What is he expecting out of you? You want to kill whoever did this to him. No wonder he never let anyone see him in the showers. 

“It’s alright. They aren’t that bad.” You hear yourself saying. You are a liar. They are terrible and pale and old. They make you hurt just by looking at them. 

“No, they’re ugly. I know.” He’s still stuttering. He is now looking past you. Tears are falling and you know that he doesn’t mean to let them. His anxiety is going through the roof. The trembling doesn’t stop. You reach out a pull him toward you. You pet him. Slow repetitive movements have always calmed him down. You keep your grip loose. He’s going to rile himself up worse if you hold on too tight. 

You hold him while he shivers and breathes. He looks terrified and exhausted. He has pushed the shirt back down. He doesn’t attempt to move or push you off. He keeps looking down and squeezing your hand. He is probably counting down seconds in his head. You reach over to turn off the light. 

You both sit in bed in the darkened room. You both sit and breathe. His trembling goes down slowly yet it never completely stops. You decide to ask the question. “Who gave you those scars?” You ask casually but you have never been more interested in an answer in your whole life. Silence greets you. That’s ok. You can wait.

“My Father.” He answers quietly. You make a noise to show you have heard.

“He only did it so I would be better. It was my fault.” Simmons starts rambling.

“Don’t.” You speak. It’s authoritative. Simmons stills. The silence reigns. It’s not comfortable. It’s tense and sad. 

“I’m sorry. I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore. I was hoping you would never find out.” He sincerely states. 

You think that he is an idiot. There is not one universe that you would not want to be with him. 

“I don’t mind.” You casually state. Simmons gives you a disbelieving look. 

“It’s ok, really. These aren’t sexy and they show how defective I am. If I was only better..” 

“Dude, you got turned into half a robot. Do you really think I would care about you having some scars. I’m impressed that you survived whatever the hell he used.” You sincerely state making sure to keep your voice as flippant as possible. No reason to scare Simmons worse.

“A belt with a buckle at the end. He would wait for me after school. He hated it when I failed.” Simmons simply states. His voice sounds far away.

“I want a nap.” You state and you pull him down with you. He isn’t shaking so badly now. “Do you want to keep your shirt on or not?” You ask him. Your teammate nods. You don’t press the issue. You laze under him. You let him rest on top of you. He looks at you. He looks exhausted. He looks like someone who has seen too much in his life and has been reminded of it all within an afternoon. He looks wounded and you decide that you hate that fucking look. 

He is looking at you like you are going to leave. He looks like he is preparing himself for a blow. You don’t think he even knows how he is watching you in his tiredly hyper aware state. You move slowly and kiss him neck. You snuggle him closer. 

“We’re good.” You reassure him. He looks at you suspiciously but he rests his head in between your shoulders and quickly falls asleep. He is too exhausted to deal with this anymore.

You want to kick yourself for bringing this on. You just couldn’t be content, could you? You stare at the ceiling, and hold your partner, and listen to his breathing evening out. You are never going to complain about that damn shirt again and you are never going to complain if Simmons decides to forgo it. The ball is in his court on that issue.

You’re name is Dexter Grif. And if you die right now you would know two things for certain. One, that you HATE anyone who does this to their child and two, you love Dick Simmons. You don’t know how but you are going to make damn sure that Simmons never sees his piece of shit Father again.


	2. Simmons Takes His Shirt Off

You sit on the bed in the base. Your hands rub underneath your shirt. You are contemplating. You want to take it off but you know that will change nothing. The scars will still be there. They are a part of you now and there is nothing you can do about it. A part of you is relieved that you don’t have to hide it from him anymore. You can’t stop your heart rate from increasing. 

He doesn’t bring it up and for someone who loves to cuddle you find his silence both a relief and a judgement. You think it must always be on his mind. Grif has assured you that he doesn’t care. You wonder if that is the truth. You feel the ridges under your shirt from the scars. They are so ugly. _Ugly just like you, just like you will always be because you are worthless and deserve nothing but pain and…_

You stop the thoughts. Deep breaths. Today is today. You are an adult. You have a choice. You don’t ever have to focus on what he said and what he did again if you don’t want to. It’s a little hard to forget when you have the physical reminders. The problem is you desperately want to be appealing for Grif. You care about what he thinks and that is a dangerous line to cross. 

You bunch up the shirt at the bottom. You wonder how he REALLY feels. Not just what he tells you. He doesn’t ask about the shirt anymore. The two of you still have sex but not as frequently. Grif doesn’t act like anything has changed. He doesn’t treat you like you are made of glass. He hasn’t suddenly turned to overly tender lovemaking. He doesn’t hold you any longer that he normally does. He doesn’t avoid you. 

That scares you. Every other partner you have had always wanted you to talk about it. Get the abuse out of your system. Open up those emotions. You used to but you found that talking about it never stopped anyone from leaving. There is no reason for you to have to relive those memories over again. Grif doesn’t press and hasn’t ever since you have had your panic attack. Your face heats up as you remember. You are embarrassed by the whole thing. It wasn’t the first time he has seen you have a panic attack but you hate being perceived as weak by him. You had thought that you had found the holy grail with that “clothing kink” excuse. 

You should have known it wouldn’t last. You find yourself biting your lower lip. Other people left once they found out about your scars. They treated you like damaged goods. You trusted them and they gave you false smiles with withering eyes. The would walk quietly around you as though you would break if they weren’t constantly on eggshells. You didn’t want that for you or Grif. 

You consider yourself lucky that you have found the fat fuck. You play with the idea of lying around with your shirt off when Grif comes in. Your leg bounces up and down as you imagine his reaction. Would he stop suddenly at the door and walk away? Would he pretend that he didn’t see them? Would he stare? 

You are feeling brave today. Sarge has made you run laps around the Blue base to “scour the perimeter”. You came back sweaty and enjoyed a cool shower. You love Sarge. You view him as the father you should have had. You bet that Sarge would have let you join the Mathletes. You like to imagine Sarge appearing at one of your competitions cheering you on and bragging to his coworkers how his son was so smart that he actually understood trigonometry. You sometimes imagine losing at these fake made up competitions that your real dad would rather die than let you attend, and Sarge patting you on the back and giving one of his inspirational speeches about hard work.

_“Don’t worry Simmons! Every dog has his day! We will work harder and show that filthy other team what happens when they mess with you! Onward to studying! No time to chit chat!”_

You smile as you imagine this. Your Commander might be insane but he does believe in hard work and not accepting defeat. You wish Sarge would have been your father. You could imagine building robots together and him teaching you how to fight off your bullies. You don’t believe for a second that he would be sitting in that high back wooden chair waiting for you to open the door. You don’t think that Sarge would have the heart to take off his belt and ask you questions you never had the right answer to. You don’t think Sarge would beat you while having a smug smile on his face like he was doing something right. You don’t think that Sarge would ignore your pleas for help in the kitchen like your mother did, only to come into your room later that night and explain how you should feel grateful that your father disciplines you because “he only wants you to do better”. 

You don’t think that Sarge would ignore the bruises like your family did simply because they didn’t want to hold their family member accountable. Sarge would have beat the shit out of your dad. The thought brings a smile to your lips even as sadness comes over you. Your father wouldn’t stand a chance, despite his love of hurting you he would always shrink back against a fight with an adult. Your father was a coward like that. You know that you come off as a kiss ass. It’s obvious even to you but no one seems to understand that Sarge is the closest you have ever gotten to positive male approval and you are going to bask in it for as long as he’ll let you.

You have nearly chewed through your lip but your eyes speak volumes. You are tired of hiding. You are tired of constantly worrying. You feel a low burn of anger as you take off your shirt. Fuck it. You feel the hot air of the canyon hit your skin as you peel off your shirt. You feel naked with it off. It feels like a layer of you is gone and in a sense it is. Your scars stand out in all of their healed over whiteness on your skin. 

The sight sends you into a new state of self loathing. It’s un-natural. How can anyone love something as fucked up as you? You look to your robotic arm and you hold it against your skin to compare. You hear footsteps coming closer. Your first instinct is to cover up. Hide the shame that covers your body and pretend that you are good enough to be around normal society.

You don’t. You bite your lip and close your fists. You do what you can to hold onto that feeling of anger deep inside of you. This is it. Grif is going to come in. He is going to see you and he is going to leave. You keep your eyes glued on the door frame. He walks in. You watch his eyes. They look down at your stomach before looking back up at your face.

“No shirt today. Cool.” He flippantly states as he comes in and lays down on the bed with you. This reaction shocks you. You look down at him confused. He meets your gaze and smiles.

“Want to make out?” He asks as he waggles his eyebrows. 

That’s it? This wasn’t supposed to be happening. He was supposed to get disgusted and leave. He was supposed to look at you in pity before doing everything he can not to look at the scars. He was supposed to attempt to make you “talk about it” before getting frustrated and leaving by your silence. That is what everyone else did. Apparently no one told Grif what he was supposed to do.

This makes you angry. People are predictable and you are supposed to be able to predict them. You punch him in the arm for his unexpected behavior. 

“Ow! What was that for?” Your lip is pressed into a thin line as your eyes glare at him. You answer his question with a kiss as you grab the front of his shirt and pull him to you. It's angry and mildly violent but you need to feel in control of something. He has this smug smile on his face as you let him up for air.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” He cheers and leans in for another kiss. You pay attention to where he places his hands. You wonder if he is going to avoid the scars or be extra gentle. You are proven wrong again as his hands move on top of the scars with the same amount of force used for the other mark-less places on your body. 

He grabs you and pulls you on top of him by your hips. One hand on your back to guide you there. Not like you needed any help. He looks at you the same way he always does. 

“Let me know if I do something wrong.” That is what he says but otherwise it’s the same. It’s normal. You pay close attention so you can tell if he’s repulsed. You can find no evidence of shaking or hesitance. It’s just you and him. When the deed is done he holds you like he normally does. Grif is a cuddler at heart and you can admit that you do take a certain comfort in it.

It’s odd to you simply because the shirt is off. You feel his arm wrap around your waist. The sensation isn’t all that different from having a shirt on. The scars go in at the middle from being healed improperly which feels a little disturbing and loose but you bury your head into his arm and think of other things. Things like how firm he is holding you. Silence envelops the room. It is comfortable. 

You don’t talk about what happened but you feel a well of emotion coming up. You are feeling unsure and you certainly will not be going shirtless outside of this room but maybe every now and then taking off the shirt wouldn’t be so bad. 

Your name is Dick Simmons and you have been hurt. You are not going to talk about the abuse. Maybe one day you will feel the need to turn to Grif and tell him about how your family wanted the “All American Dream”. 

Maybe one day you will tell him how you would intentionally piss off your bullies so they would keep you longer and you wouldn’t have to go home to face the biggest bully of all. 

Maybe one day you will tell him about how you told the teacher who saw you changing in PE what was going on at home, only to be told that your Father had the “right intentions”. 

Maybe one day you will tell him how much of a hell it was to grow up in a home where everyday was unknown and your every action was looked on with scorn.

Maybe one day but not today. 

For today you will lay in Grif’s arms like nothing has changed and look at the shirt on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. Thank you to everyone who gave kudos, bookmarked, or reviewed this story! Notice that the abuse was systematic. Simmons told many people and many others knew what was going on but no one did anything. This is how abuse continues. Thank you for reading and I hope everyone has a nice night!

**Author's Note:**

> Child abuse is horrible. It is something that needs to be stopped as soon as possible because the effects last well into adulthood. I attempted to show a realistic view of the after effects of child abuse. Simmons sometimes in the show behaves like an abuse survivor so it made me want to write this story. Thank you for reading and if you know a child that is being abused get them out of that situation. If you are dealing with an abused partner or were abused yourself just take things one day at a time.
> 
> And remember, kindness breaks down more walls than a hammer ever could. Part 2 will be out sometime! Thank you for reading my sad story! The title is based off of a song from Shakira.


End file.
